


Urban Daydream

by Qion



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Established Relationship, F/F, Hurt No Comfort, Jealousy, Lack of Communication, a bitch is Sad and y'all gotta deal with it now, another fuckin vent fic, but like not really, y'know what this is??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:20:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24265768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Qion/pseuds/Qion
Summary: She really should answer America's text, but there's not much Russia can do now other than waste away in her hotel room and ride out the summer heatwave in Los Angeles. It's pathetic, how these things turn out.
Relationships: America/Russia (Hetalia), Female America/Female Russia (Hetalia)
Kudos: 16





	Urban Daydream

**Author's Note:**

> right off the bat: this is very self-indulgent and not very good when it comes to proper characterization. i'm just piling stuff into this fic so i don't have to deal with it myself, so please excuse the poor writing. have some troubled fem!russia and be on your way

It was too hot. 

The constant hum of the air conditioning did little to help circulate the sweltering heat trapped in the hotel room, although the alternative of waiting outside on the balcony was considerably less appealing to Russia. 

There was little she could do but lay on the bed, shedding as many layers as she could in an attempt to regulate the temperature herself. With the midday sun at full strength, her strongest defense was relegated to an old t-shirt and some shorts she had dug out of her suitcase. 

Russia turned her head to loll to the side, groggily lifting up her phone and grimacing at the damp feeling of sweat beading down her arms and soaking the bedsheets under her. The message on the screen never changed though, the same question flashing in her face every time she checked. 

_you wanna get smth to eat?_

Russia didn’t even know how America would start to navigate the neverending rush of Los Angeles, let alone actively search for an open restaurant. 

Everything about the city brought about a sinking pit of disgust deep in Russia’s stomach that she had never been able to shake off. America had hosted enough meetings in her crown jewel of urban development for Russia to be able to track the exponential growth of her lingering discomfort into a full-blown nausea as the years went on. 

The streets were rooted in the glorified contradiction that Russia had come to connect with America herself, built with the facade of luxury in order to hide the crumbling infrastructure that lay just underneath it. It made her sick to walk through polished squares primed for the mass of tourists who could revel in the illusion of wealth for a day or two before they were hustled back home. 

Although, she mused, that wasn’t exactly all true. 

Russia’s hand dropped back to the sheets, phone nearly falling out of her grasp as she turned her head to look out the window. The curtains were pulled back to offer a bird’s-eye view of the neverending rows of sleek buildings and streetlights, although the unforgiving gleam of the sun through the glass forced her to narrow her eyes in order to be able to see it clearly. 

Sure, the city disgusted her, but America’s unending optimism to fix it was what truly made her chest twist in furled knots.

For as long as Los Angeles itself existed, America had likewise chattered on and on about how she would patch it all up, how she would mold it into the dream that she had always envisioned for herself. Each little accomplishment was celebrated like some grand milestone, disregarding the multitude of consequences that inevitably sprung up in its place. 

America only looked forward, forward, forward and Russia hated her for it. 

Russia blinked, briefly snapping the world back into focus. 

Did she really think that?

She rolled onto her side, her phone left behind as she faced the city below her. The sheets were still warm, uncomfortably so even, but Russia couldn’t find the energy to move to a different spot. 

No, she didn’t hate America. She couldn’t hate America. 

She loved America and all of her boundless energy. She loved her toothy grin and bold laughter, her eager confidence and rushed genius. To hate America now would be nothing short of betrayal after all that they had gone through to finally see eye to eye. 

But still, there was that lingering void that Russia couldn’t quite fill up. 

She could remember when she was like America, overjoyed to see the small positives in the face of overwhelming failure. Each little victory had filled her with the addictive rush of pride until she was practically bursting with the bright hope that the next would come soon. 

For Russia though, she had only known a hope born of desperation. 

To catch up when she had fallen behind, to keep up when the world moved on without her, to meet her challenger head-on in order to prove herself worthy of her position at the world meetings; these were all things she was familiar with. 

Did America know what those things felt like? 

Russia reached behind her, patting around the messy covers before she managed to locate her phone, pulling it forward to stare at the same message she had studied for the past hour. 

America had grown so strong so quickly that still Russia felt the brief twinge of admiration deep in her heart as time went on. Now that she was in her prime, she took her place as the superpower of the world, all youthful dreams and ambitions high enough to touch the moon. 

America sought after each little victory in the hopes of fostering another, and she truly believed that she could make herself even stronger in the process. 

Russia’s arm lost the energy to keep itself suspended, hitting the mattress as soon as the screen darkened. 

All of the rushed attempts at industrialization, the desperate race to make up for all the time she had lost spun in dizzying circles around her head. She had failed enough to give up on the hope that she could fill the role of the ever-powerful rival that America had given her. 

But America had yet to face that kind of failure.

And Russia hated her for it. 

She jolted when the door pounded behind her, whipping around in order to stare at the narrow hall that led to the entrance before she was rushing to get out of bed. There was really no hope to clean herself up in time and change out of her sweat-soaked clothes, but Russia still did her best to straighten herself out, running a hand through her hair one last time before she turned the handle.

“Hey dude!” America waved eagerly at her, tucking her phone back away into the bomber jacket tied around her waist. “You good? I texted you like an hour ago for lunch and you never really answered.”

For a moment, Russia’s breath caught in her throat, heart cinching with the fear that maybe her thoughts were written more clearly on her face than she had thought, that those traitorous doubts would be cast out for America to see. But America only waited for her answer with that broad grin on her face, showing no sign that she could somehow peer into Russia's mind and find those shameful words for herself. 

“I’m sorry,” she finally said, voice as calm as she could get it to be. “I don’t think I saw it.” 

America let out a laugh, the bold sound barely constrained by the hallway she was standing in. “No worries man! I figured I’d just drop by anyways! Hope you don’t mind, but like, I’m gonna pass out if I have to walk around in _that_ heat.” 

Right. It was hot and she should let America in instead of looming in the doorway like she had something to hide.

“I do not mind.” Russia stepped out of the way, holding the door open with her palm. “I think I would prefer to stay inside today as well.” 

She did mind. In fact, she had never minded so much about something before, but all of that was kept hidden away as America shot her a grin and ducked under her arm to dart inside. 

“Oh thank god!” America was quick to flop onto the bed, groan muffled by the pillows. “I’m just gonna order room service or something. You want anything?” 

America glanced up at her with an easy smile and for a moment, Russia felt all of that cold hatred stab itself deep into her heart. 

She wanted to make America leave, to hurt her, to make her understand what it was like to have nothing but hope to hold onto, to make her see that someone like Russia wasn’t worthy of her time after all that she had lost- 

“Just order for yourself.” 

America eyed her suspiciously before she shrugged. “You're paying for whatever you take off my plate.” 

“You know that you are ordering from my room, right?” 

“Did I ask?” 

A triumphant grin spread across America’s face when Russia said nothing in return, pumping one victorious fist in the air before she rolled over to start digging through the drawers in search of the menu. Russia merely held her tongue and came to sit down next to her, dipping the bed with her weight. 

She wouldn’t burden America with the silly jealousy tumbling around in her head. After everything they had gone through together, Russia didn’t dare to risk their relationship for something she could deal with on her own. 

It still gnawed at her stomach every time she looked down to smile at America, digging a hole in her mind that she couldn’t fill fast enough no matter how much she tried to patch it up with the faint echoes of affectionate words that sounded empty even to her own ears. She wanted to mean them, wanted to give America the support that she had granted in return, but that void stole away all of the love that she tried so desperately to give to her regardless of how she tried to fight it. 

Russia prayed that America would never see just how deep that pit in her heart had become over the years. She would never forgive herself if she did. 

**Author's Note:**

> whoopsies forgot to add my tumblr again, but come drop by if you wanna talk about some hetalia shit or whatever [here](https://qionow.tumblr.com/)


End file.
